The Gatekeeper

by Michelle Gagnon

  After a few tries the switchboard routed her to an extension. She left a message for Mark, hung up, and was surprised when almost immediately her phone rang.

  “Kelly! Can’t believe you called, it’s been years!” Mark said.

  Kelly smiled. It was nice that someone actually sounded happy to hear from her. “Hi, Mark. Listen, I’m in the middle of a sticky case right now, and thought you might be able to help out.”

  There was a pause. Mark’s tone had shifted when he said, “So much for catching up, huh?”

  “No, I didn’t mean…How are you?” Kelly asked awkwardly.

  Mark laughed. “It’s okay, Kelly. I should’ve known better, you’re not the type to call for a chat.”

  Kelly wanted to protest, but he was right. Since Mark had left the Bureau she’d barely thought of him. And not only had they been close friends, they’d even briefly dated. She wondered what that said about her. “I’m really sorry, Mark.”

  “No problem. So what’s going on?”

  “I need to know more about different anti-immigration groups-skinheads, Aryan Brotherhood, Minutemen.”

  “Technically these days we refer to them as hate groups,” he said. “And this is for a case, huh?”

  “It is. Why?”

  “There have been some interesting rumors flying around the Web lately. Nothing too serious, but the chatter has definitely ticked up on some of the sites we monitor. One guy made a reference to something big brewing, and immediately got flamed by everyone else.”

  “And that’s not normal?”

  “The big claims are, but the flaming was surprising.” Mark sounded pensive. “Usually they love to get each other all riled up, kind of feeding off the hate. But they clamped down on this, went so far as to call the guy a liar and a troublemaker. Pretty out of character for that site. Made me think there might really be something in the works.”

  Kelly flashed back on the blue powder. “Could any of the groups you monitor pull off something major?”

  “Hard to say. Back in the nineties, a few redneck Klansmen almost succeeded in blowing up a natural gas processing plant in Texas. If one of them hadn’t got cold feet and gone to the Bureau, the explosion could have taken out hundreds, maybe thousands of people.” She heard the sound of typing in the background. “Can you tell me why you asked about those groups specifically?”

  Kelly weighed what she could say without compromising the investigation. “There might be a connection between some ex-con Aryan Brotherhood members and some of the border militia guys.”

  “Crap. That’s not good. What people don’t realize is that while hate groups have doubled their membership in the past decade, you people,” Mark’s voice turned harsh as he said, “have completely dropped the ball.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true-” Kelly protested.

  “It is,” Mark interrupted. “The attack on 9/11 initiated a complete reallocation of resources. Now you ignore the domestic militias we were all so afraid of in the nineties, instead it’s all about foreign nationals on our soil. When the truth is, we’re more likely to see another Oklahoma City before another twin towers.”

  “Why has the membership doubled?” Kelly asked, trying to refocus him. That was one thing she’d forgotten about Mark, he went from zero to rage in seconds flat.

  “Anti-immigration has been the great unifier,” Mark said, catching himself. His voice was more controlled as he continued, “And the Internet made finding like-minded recruits a hell of a lot easier. The good news is that, by and large, these people are all talk. They love to rant and rave, but when it comes down to actually doing anything about it, most of them are too disorganized.”

  “But?” Kelly asked.

  “But what we worry about is the possibility of someone smart and charismatic bringing all these disparate groups together.”

  “Like an American version of Osama bin Laden?”

  “Exactly like that.” Mark spoke in a rush, excited. “Imagine survivalists, skinheads and Minutemen. All heavily armed, all willing to fight. It would be like your own personal mercenary army. And if you had money to back it up, well…”

  “Well?” Kelly asked when he didn’t continue.

  “Let’s just say it would be really, really bad. People take for granted the stability of our country, but the truth is there isn’t a nation on the planet completely immune to a coup attempt. Given the right circumstances, someone could seize power and overthrow the Constitution.”

  “That sounds a little far-fetched,” Kelly said.

  “Does it? In the last decade alone there have been more than thirty coup attempts worldwide. Thirteen of those succeeded. Our government has only been in power for two-hundred years, not long at all in the grand scheme of things. The Romans ruled in one form or another for nearly a thousand years, and look what happened to them. And the people assigned to defend us, the National Guard and most of our military units, are currently overseas. At the moment, the United States has a very limited homeland defense.”

  “Still…” Kelly tried to think of an appropriate response. Much of what he was saying was true, but the thought of a bunch of skinheads taking over the government still sounded preposterous.

  “Still nothing. All it would take was some sort of cataclysmic event to coalesce people. Remember that 9/11 could very well have gone another way. Rather than rallying behind the president, people could have blamed him for not keeping the nation safe. And imagine the outcome if that had happened, and people took to the streets.”

  “You were born in the wrong era, Mark. Should’ve been a ’60s radical,” Kelly teased.

  His voice lost some enthusiasm as he said, “Maybe you’re right. I know you can’t tell me much, but please, if you learn anything…”

  “I’ll call. And, Mark, let’s keep this between us, all right?”

  He hesitated before saying, “All right. But if things are in motion, I expect a phone call.”

  “Definitely.” Kelly hung up and thought about what he’d said. She turned back to her laptop and enlarged a photo of Jackson Burke. He was wearing a tuxedo, the portrait of well-fed contentment, mouth half-open in a laugh. “An American bin Laden, huh?” she said, examining it. “You don’t look like someone who’d enjoy spending time in a cave.”

  Madison sat next to Bree’s hospital bed, picking at her cuticles. Ironic that twenty-four hours earlier Bree had been sitting beside her. The guy who gave her first aid was right, Bree would be fine. She had conked out while they were bandaging her arm. Madison envied her. She’d never been so tired in her entire life, but every time her head nodded she jerked awake. It would probably be a while before she slept through the night again, if ever.

  The doctors had examined her leg and changed the cast since it got beat-up during their escape. Her lungs had checked out fine, too, although they felt tight from the smoke. The nurse said that would probably go away in a day or two.

  Madison glanced at the door. Her mother was talking to one of the FBI agents. For some reason she felt less safe having them as guards. The commando-boys had been scary, but that made them seem more effective. Her mother had her arms crossed over her chest and was examining the floor tiles, nodding occasionally while the agent explained something. She looked old, Madison suddenly realized. Her mother used to be so pretty, back when she and Dad were still together.

  The agent left and her mother remained there for a moment. She turned to find Madison watching her and suddenly straightened, forcing a weak smile.

  “Any news about Dad?” Madison asked, as her mother leaned in and smoothed the covers over Bree.

  “Not yet, sweetie. But they’re checking planes and trains to see if they can track him down. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  She can’t even make that sound believable, Madison thought. It was just like when she told Madison they’d never get divorced. Then three months later, boom. “What about his credit cards? Are they checking those?”

  “Yes. I think so
.” Her mother slumped into the other chair. “They know what they’re doing, Maddee. They’ll find him if…”

  “If what?” Madison pressed.

  “If he wants to be found.”

  Madison processed that. Her mother was implying that maybe her father hadn’t been taken by the bad guys, maybe he’d left on his own. But he’d never leave without them. Her mother, maybe, but he’d take her and Bree along. Wouldn’t he?

  “We should try to sleep for a bit,” her mother said. “The nurse said the bed in the next room is empty. Would you like to lie down?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Well, I’m going to try.” Her mother used the arms of the chair to push herself up. “If you need anything one of the agents will get it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  On her way out she placed her hand on Madison ’s head, then bent and kissed her. It had been a long time since she’d done that, and Madison ’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s going to be okay, honey, I promise,” she said in a low voice before leaving.

  Madison sank deeply down in the chair. The only thing she was sure of was that nothing was going to be all right, ever again.

  JULY 3

  Twenty-Nine

  Jake started awake. He had dozed off while leaning back in a desk chair with his feet propped on a conference table, and they’d slipped to the floor. He shook his head to clear it. Syd was sitting across the table smirking at him.

  “Comfortable?”

  “These chairs were designed by sadists,” Jake complained, trying to stretch out a kink in his back. George had appropriated office space from the Sacramento field office, and told the two of them to stay put while he dug up information on Randall Grant. Jake had tried to convince him to let them go to a motel, but George made it clear it was the office or a holding cell. And frankly the way his eyes lit up when he mentioned the cell gave Jake pause. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Yup.” Syd pointed down. “Stretched out on the floor.”

  “Really?” Jake eyed it dubiously. The rug was of questionable vintage, covered with old coffee stains.

  “It beats a cave in Pakistan where they’re burning dung for fuel.”

  “I suppose.” He checked his watch: 5:00 a.m. They’d been here for nearly twelve hours, and his stomach was rumbling. Even cafeteria food sounded good at this point. He should call Kelly back, too, now that things had settled down. It was 7:00 a.m. in Texas. She was probably already awake. But better to talk to her on a full stomach, he reasoned. “You up for a trip to the mess?”

  “I got the sense we weren’t allowed to leave this room.” Syd raised an eyebrow.

  “And that’s stopped you when?”

  “Good point. Let’s go.”

  George opened the door as they were about to step out. “Making a break for it?”

  “Just heading down for some food,” Jake said. “We’re wasting away in here.”

  “Doesn’t look like it would kill you to miss a meal,” George joked, eyeing Jake’s stomach. “Desk work has done you in, my man.”

  “Bullshit. I’m still at my fighting weight,” Jake said defensively, trying not to be obvious about sucking in his gut.

  “Not you, my dear, you’re perfect.” George winked at Syd. “Anyway, you might want to hold off on the prison break. I’ve got news about your boy.”

  “Yeah?” Jake’s heart sank. George’s humor sounded forced.

  Syd sensed it, too. “Bad news,” she said flatly.

  “Yeah, I think so.” George opened a file and slid out a photo. “This your guy?”

  Syd looked at it first. Without commenting, she simply nodded, then handed it to Jake. Typical morgue photo, the flat light made it look black-and-white even though it wasn’t. It was Randall Grant, all right. Someone had shot him at point-blank range near the temple. Death must have been mercifully quick, if there was such a thing.

  “Crap.” Jake handed it back. “Where?”

  “ Texas. When I accessed his fingerprints from the lab, I saw that another field office had matched them this morning. Made a few calls, but they’re not releasing any information yet.”

  “Meaning what? They don’t know who killed him?”

  “Meaning, I get the sense they’re dealing with something big down there. Mobile units were called in, and they’re raising the threat advisory level to orange, maybe even red on the basis of this.”

  “Just because a scientist was killed?” Syd asked, puzzled.

  “This guy Randall was a physicist, right?” George asked. “And you think he might have been smuggling nuclear info to the wrong people?”

  “Maybe.” Syd turned it over in her mind. “But how did he end up in Texas?”

  “No sign of him on any of the plane manifests.”

  “Maybe he didn’t fly commercial,” Jake said. “Was there anything that might clue us in to what he was doing?”

  “Like I said, my compadres in the great state of Texas aren’t talking.” George glanced at Jake. “But I was thinking you might have an in.”

  “Why would Jake have an in? He never worked there,” Syd said.

  “No, but his fiancée is the one who found the body.”

  “What?” Jake took the form back and scanned it. It was a basic FBI FD302 report. Kelly’s name popped out at him. He flashed back on what little she’d told him about the case, something about Jackson Burke and a strange blue powder. “Oh, shit,” he said.

  “Call your girl,” George said, nodding toward the phone on the desk. “And let’s see if we can figure out what the hell is going on.”

  Dante watched as the lead-lined barrel holding the bomb was lowered into the center of the float. There had been a screwup with the one meant for San Antonio-the yokels in charge of the warehouse got snared in some FBI sting. He shook his head. Man, it was hard to find people you could trust these days. And he hated that their failure reflected poorly on him, at least in Jackson ’s eyes. He needed to make sure that from here on out, everything went smoothly.

  Dante still couldn’t believe the FBI had found the Laredo warehouses. Now he’d have to come up with a fresh crop of illegals to man the float. That was one thing Jackson was absolutely adamant about-there had to be immigrants, especially Mexicans, tied to the initial blast. Not a serious problem, Dante still had Minutemen willing to serve as coyotes. The trick was getting another float ready in time. Thank God he’d kept the construction materials in a separate warehouse.

  Dante watched as his guys wrapped white, red and green streamers around a wire-mesh frame. He had to grin at the incongruity of it. Who knew the arts and crafts program at Corcoran would come in so handy one day?

  His phone buzzed. Dante checked the number, then snapped it open. “Do you have them?”

  “Sir, this is Curtis Clay.”

  Dante frowned, searching his mind. Remembered a beady-eyed little guy, sidekick to one of his boys in California. “You’re not supposed to have this number.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…Jonas told me to call if something went wrong.”

  Dante’s lip curled. Sure, everyone did each other in prison, but the ones who kept it up on the outside-he could hardly stomach the thought. The only reason he’d tolerated Jonas was that he was smart and took orders without giving him shit. “So?”

  “So-” Curtis cleared his throat. “Jonas never came home last night, then I saw something on the news about a big bust over in Winters. Buncha bikers, and it was right near where you sent him.” There was a note of accusation in his voice. “He said he’d be home by dark.”

  Dante could have sworn he heard sniffles. “Yeah, well, maybe he got smart and threw you over for some pussy.”

  A pause, then Curtis whined, “They said some of them were dead, too. But they’re not saying who.”

  “What about the bitches?”

  “What bitches?”

  “The ones Jonas was supposed to pick up.” Dante closed his eyes and fought the urge to hurl the phone again
st a wall. Shit, if this was true, he was down more men. And Jonas had been part of the next phase of the plan. He didn’t have anyone else in the area he could trust with it. He should have known better than to call in the Rogues. Dante had never been keen on using bikers, they were too loosely organized, too likely to narc when they got caught. They were probably singing right now. He went over what they knew, trying to remember if any of it pointed to him, or worse, to Jackson.

  “They didn’t say anything about that on the news.”

  “Fuck the news. I want you to call around, find out what the fuck is going on. I want to know where they were taken, and what happened to the women in the house.” Dante started composing a list in his mind. He needed to get in touch with one of his soldiers on the inside, make sure the biker pricks got the message that anyone who talked would suffer. Winters P.D. probably didn’t have their own jail, and even if they did, wouldn’t want to risk locals overrunning it. So that meant they’d be stowed in either Vacaville or Davis: Vacaville if he was lucky, he still had a good network there. Worst-case scenario they would have been driven to the federal pen in Sacramento. It would be harder to get to them there, but not impossible.

  If the news was covering this, the Feds probably stashed the girls in a safe house somewhere. Weighing what had happened, Dante decided bothering with them was no longer worth it. They’d been bad luck, ever since the girl was snatched shit started rolling downhill. And they were so close now, he couldn’t risk fucking things up any worse. Plus, with Grant dead, the only reason to mess with his family would be to exact revenge on his corpse. And for that he could wait. Feds wouldn’t be watching them forever.

  Creeper came out of the office, motioning for his attention. Dante held up a hand to indicate he needed one more minute.

  “You got that, Curtis? I want to hear back from you in an hour, max, and I want a fucking hell of a lot more than what you saw on CNN.” He clicked off without saying goodbye and looked at Creeper. “What?”